


Long Live the King (Scandal Westeros - Episode Six)

by SkinnyBlackGirl



Series: Scandal: Westeros [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Modern Targaryen Monarchy, Modern Westeros, Multi, Murder, Politics, R Plus L Equals J | Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen are Jon Snow's Parents, Scandal-Westeros, Sexual Tension, War of the Five Kings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28835496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyBlackGirl/pseuds/SkinnyBlackGirl
Summary: The bells toll at the Royal Palace at Dragonstone and Westeros officially has a new monarch. While Prince, now King Rhaegar has prepared for this moment all his life, taking his place at the head of the monarchy might prove more challenging than he imagined. Thanks to a family full of willful, rebellious dragons and the woman he could never forget who is back as Westeros's Foreign Affairs Minister.Meanwhile, tensions run high at Sphinx Consultants as the team's fearless leader, Sarella Sand, struggles with the devastating end of her relationship with Robb Stark and the secret opposition research she's doing on a potential candidate for Prime Minister, Lyanna Stark.
Relationships: Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Daemon Sand/Sarella Sand, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Series: Scandal: Westeros [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623448
Comments: 16
Kudos: 33





	1. Rest Well, Love

**Author's Note:**

> I've tagged this story with "Aerys II Targaryen" but in this universe, he's Aerys Velaryon of Driftmark, Prince Consort to Queen Rhaella Targaryen.

It’s been years since General Barristan Selmy walked the halls in the royal apartments of Dragonstone, yet his body falls into muscle memory as he’s led down the corridor. It feels strange in his layman’s clothes with the soft soles of his shoes absorbing the sound of his steps. As a General and former member of the Royal Guard, he’s never been to the Royal Palace out of uniform. The lack of formality only makes his purpose more apparent. His heart sinks at what he’s sure to find once he completes the six hundred and thirty-eight steps from the eastern wing entryway to the bedroom on the left side at the end of the hall. 

These halls hold thirty years of memories. Prince Rhaegar’s evening pacing, which he’d taken to as a ten-year-old when he couldn’t sleep. Princess Danaerys’s first cautious steps and the pride that lit her wide, violet eyes as she wobbled, unassisted, toward her mother. Gangly young Prince Viserys challenging his older brother to foot races. 

Stolen glances during rushed marches toward the stairs. Quiet conversations at the end of long days. 

Shouts and curses spilling out of locked doors in the dead of night. 

“General Barristan Selmy for you, Your Grace.” 

On instinct, Barristan goes to kneel when a thin, gravelly voice stops him. “That won’t be necessary, General.” A shallow cough shakes the Queen’s thin frame. “Thank you, Darry. Leave us. General Selmy will summon you when we’re finished.” 

Barristan doesn’t allow his eyes to see her. Not like this. Frail. Gray skin against shiny silver hair. The hair grabs his attention. It is perfectly coiffed into a long braid with only a few stubborn whisps laying on her forehead as if she’s had it braided for the occasion. 

“Can you still make it to your knees, Ser Grandfather?” 

The jibe takes him out of himself for a moment. Then Barristan looks past the Queen’s gaunt face to see a familiar hint of light in her purple eyes. Pulling out a chair next to the bed, he allows himself a small smile. “For Your Grace, I would have tried.” 

“None of that,” she says, stretching her hand on top of the duvet. “Not now, _Jorrāelagon_.” 

The word makes his chest swell as much as it did the first time Rhaella said it to him all those years ago.

_“Jorrāelagon. It’s High Valyrian for ‘love.’”_

_“You honor me, Rhaella.”_

_“You’ve seen how my husband treats me, Barristan. It is you who honors me.”_

Yes. He’d seen Aerys Velaryon’s treatment of his wife and Queen first hand. Neglect. Flagrant infidelity. Open resentment. 

And later, violence. 

Barristan accepts her hand, gently so not to crush her delicate bones, and brings it to his lips for a chaste kiss. 

After all these years, he still doesn’t have the right. She’s the bloody Queen. No matter how far he rose in Westeros’s military ranks, he’s a mere soldier. A protector. Once assigned to the Prince Consort until that Prince became the danger that the Queen needed protection from.

 _“You think I don’t see the way you look at him, Rhaella? You think I can’t see that you’re fucking the help like a common whore?!”_

Aerys was wrong. Barristan and Rhaella conversed more than appropriate and shared gazes thick with mutual longing, but Barristan hadn’t touched the Queen. He ached to do so. Imagining the silk of silver hair and porcelain skin under his fingertips kept him up most nights. And he wouldn’t have denied her if she asked, but she hadn’t. 

Ignoring his orders to never disturb the Queen and Prince Consort in the bedroom, Barristan burst through the door with his gun drawn. Aerys stood over a crouching Rhaella, angry purple flames in his eyes with his hand raised, mid-swing. 

Rhaella’s prone crying form made his trigger finger itch. Every instinct in his body shouted at him to end Aerys right there. He couldn’t. Devoted to Rhaella as he was, as much as he loathed the man he was charged to protect, Barristan was a Captain in the Royal Guard. 

_“Enough. Your Highness. May I remind you that Her Grace is your Queen.”_

_“Yes, Captain Selmy,”_ he said cooly. _“_ Mine _indeed.”_

Looking back, Barristan should have filled Aerys with hot lead that night.

The palace staff knew that the Queen and Prince Consort were having a “rough patch,” so many were relieved when Aerys wanted to whisk his wife away the following weekend. Their secretaries arranged a romantic trip to the Targaryen’s castle at Summerhall and conveniently left Barristan off the security detail. 

When the couple returned, Rhaella’s sparkling eyes held no light. 

The gruesome details of just _how_ the Prince Consort had violated the Queen at Summerhall only confirmed what Barristan knew the moment he saw Rhaella return to Dragonstone after their trip. 

With a vial of sweet sleep, knowledge of Dragonstone’s secret tunnels, and a pillow over the Prince Consort’s face, Barristan ended Aerys Velaryon. 

And when a pregnant Rhaella needed the affection and tenderness she never received in her marriage and was ready to know the touch of a man again, Barristan found new ways to honor his Queen. 

Rhaella coughs again, bringing his mind back to the present. “I can’t leave without you knowing what you did for me."

It doesn’t matter that this is why he’s here, Barristan can’t stand to hear her talk like this. “Oh, Rhaella, please.” 

With the strength she has left, she squeezes his hand. “Let me speak, _Jorrāelagon._ You brought the light back into my world when I only knew darkness. Loving you," she coughs. "Was one of the joys of my life."

Barristan sighs, once more bringing her hand to his mouth. “ _You_ were always the light. I just cut the darkness away.” 

“You know you did more than that,” she says with warmth in her eyes. 

Looking around the bedroom where they shared so many nights after Aerys’s death, he nods. He’s never been comfortable speaking of such things in plain terms. “The privilege was all mine.” 

“I grow tired, but I don’t want you to leave. Will you stay until I fall asleep?” 

Knowing exactly what that means, Barristan nods again. “I love you more than anything I’ve ever known, Rhaella. Of course, I’ll stay.” 

With her hand still in his, Rhaella closes her eyes. “I love you, too.” 

He stays until her labored breaths are the only sound in the room. Until the damp Dragonstone night gives way to the first peeks of the rising sun in the gray horizon. 

Until Rhaella’s hand goes limp and cold and the dam of tears he’s held back since walking into the palace finally breaks.

He tells himself he should alert security, but he’s rooted to his seat, not ready to say the words aloud. 

An indeterminable amount of time passes before Barristan leans over the bed and presses a kiss to Rhaella’s cold forehead. “Rest well, _Jorrāelagon._ ” 

Once he's summoned the stones to do what needs to be done, he instructs Willem Darry to wake up the Crown Prince. In two minutes, a sleepy-eyed, long-faced Prince Rhaegar arrives with Princess Elia at his side. While Barristan still thinks of him as the brooding young man skulking about the castle, the Prince who stands before him wears the distinguished face of middle age. Lines around his mouth. Gray streaks at his temples.

Everything except his eyes. The forlorn indigo gaze of a boy not ready to lose his mother searches Barristan's expression as if he expects the older man to deny the truth.

With a heavy sigh, Barristan bows his head. “The Queen is dead, Your Grace.” 

Then, slowly he falls to one knee, wincing as his aging body rejects the movement. “Long live the King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***  
> One of my personal ASOIAF crusades is giving voices and full lives to the "lost women" of the Rebellion era (Rhaella, Elia, Lyanna, Rhaenys--we MAY even see Ashara Dayne pop up down the line), so it was important for me to center the Targaryen monarchy on Rhaella as queen. Queen Rhaella ridding herself of Aerys, experiencing love, raising her children and grandchildren, and living a long life where she ruled successfully was one of the first bits of back story I had in mind when I started planning this universe.
> 
> R.I.P. to our Good Queen Rhaella Targaryen, First of Her Name.


	2. Chapter 2

“From now until we land a client in the race...” Sarella Sand pins the last of three photos on the conference room wall. “...we will eat, sleep, and breathe gathering intel on candidates for Prime Minister. We will treat each of these people as if they are both opposition and client because at some point, they will be one or the other.” 

The three men on the wall are Renly Baratheon, Kevan Lannister, and Baelon Greyjoy, who’d all tossed their proverbial hats into the race early. Renly, representing a coalition of the Stormlands and Reach regions, Kevan in for the Westerlands and Crownlands, and Baelon for the Iron Islands; a region full of far-wing nutcases unlikely to win anything but run a candidate every time to spout their extremism. 

“We still don’t know who the North, Vale, and Riverlands are backing?” Brienne asks. 

“Not yet,” Sarella lies. If Foreign Affairs Minister Lyanna Stark passes vetting...

_If her son didn’t do something extremely stupid that will come back and bite her in the ass._

If Lyanna runs, the North will throw their support behind her and if the Riverlands and Vale are smart, they’ll back her. Neither region has a leader strong enough to win national office and none of the other candidates give a shit about their issues; they’ll just take their votes and ignore them for the next six years. 

“Soooo we’re pretending we don’t know that they’re all waiting for the Ginger Boy Wonder to state his intentions?” 

Leave it to Nymeria to bring up Robb. That’s the _last_ person Sarella wants to think about. 

“As far as I know, Councilman Stark is focused on another term in the People’s Council. Until that changes, we proceed as if the North, Riverlands, and Vale are up for grabs.” Sarella adds a final photo: Attorney General Stannis Baratheon. 

“Stannis won’t leave the Justice Ministry for the PM’s office,” Jon says. “He enjoys putting people in prison too much to do anything else.” 

Sarella checks her body language, keeping her eyes on the board instead of rolling them out of her head. Jon’s lucky the Attorney General cared more about the millions of dollars in drugs smuggled into King’s Landing for Joffrey’s little party than solving his murder.

“If he isn’t assured his place in the cabinet, he’ll run Independent. He might peel off the Vale and Riverlands votes if the North doesn’t put forth a good candidate.” 

Sam Tarly looks up from his notebook, where he’s been furiously scribbling to survey the board. “Sounds like Westeros is in for a battle royale. A war of four kings.” 

Sarella stares at the space on the wall where Lyanna’s photo will eventually go. “Bet on five.” 

* * *

_“We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming with a sad announcement from the Royal Palace at Dragonstone. Queen Rhaella Targaryen, First of Her Name has passed away.”_

“Seven hells.” Lyanna Stark whispers into her office, looking up from the briefing on her desk to turn up the volume. 

_“After a months-long fight with pneumonia-related respiratory issues, the seventy-six-year-old monarch died in her sleep early this morning. Her heir, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was reportedly on the palace grounds at the time of her death and is expected to give his formal statement of ascension within the hour._

_“Queen Rhaella is survived by her children: Prince Rhaegar and his wife Princess Elia, Prince Viserys, and Princess Daenerys; grandchildren: Princess Rhaenys and her husband Prince Consort Terrence Celtigar, and Prince Aegon; and twin great-grandchildren: Prince Baelor and Princess Viserra.”_

Lyanna rolls her neck and shoulders, failing to release the knots of tension that have taken up residence in her body this morning. With a sigh, she rings her secretary with instructions to draft a statement of condolences from the Foreign Affairs Ministry to King Rhaegar and the Royal Family. 

_King. Rhaegar._

Why does the title jar her? It was written in history before he left his mother’s womb. Before that fateful day at Harrenhal over thirty years ago. Before hesitant smiles across the room over the rims of wine glasses. Before his hand on the small of her back as they toured the private Valyrian artifacts exhibit at the Braavosi Museum of World History. Before secret weekends in Dorne and waking up to the sound of idle guitar-strumming as the hot desert sun blazed through the windows across his bare chest and made his silver locks look like strands of silk on a seamstress’s loom. 

Somehow, it seemed he’d always be _Prince_ Rhaegar, the charismatic brooder with a poet’s heart and the singing voice of a tortured angel. 

No. Those are just the memories she revisits most often. 

Stuck between the scenes of their romance are his serious, solitary moments. Evenings in parlors where he read the biographies of his favorite leaders while she poured over her international studies books. Their endless conversations about King Aegon III and Cregan Stark as the Republic of Westeros’s first King and Prime Minister pairing. 

He was always a king in waiting. She just preferred to remember him as her prince. 

A foolish notion for a woman of her age and position. 

_"One can’t discuss the legacy of Queen Rhaella’s rule without mentioning the controversial renunciation of King’s Landing back in 1976 AC when she signed over the Red Keep and its surrounding lands to the Republic of Westeros and moved the Targaryen’s royal seat to the Palace at Dragonstone. Working with then-newly-elected Prime Minister Olenna Tyrell, Queen Rhaella cemented the pair as the ideal Monarch/Prime Minister partnership that generations of political leaders herald as the most successful of its kind and a new dawn for female political leadership in Westeros…”_

“Minister Stark.” 

Lyanna’s Chief of Staff, Howland Reed, stands in the door gripping his tablet and a stylus. 

“No one’s around, Howland. Close the door and take the stick out of your ass.” 

Ignoring her, her old friend walks in and sits down at the small round table in the corner. “I’ve cleared all your morning meetings between Friday and Thursday in anticipation of the Queen’s funeral.”

“Good thinking. What did I have next week?” 

“A few staff meetings. A call with PM Tarly to discuss sanctions on Yuncai, Astapor, and Meereen.” 

She’ll needle Randyll about that at the funeral. The Republic won’t have a leg to stand on in the international community if they don’t come down hard against the slave trade in southern Essos. 

“And a lunch with Wyman Manderly? What’s that about?” Howland peers at her over the rims of his tortoiseshell glasses. 

“Me telling him I’m not running for office over crab legs I won’t have to pay for.” 

“Lyanna…” 

“It looks suspicious if I’m this high up in government with _no_ interest in running for office, Howland. I have to at least flirt with the idea occasionally.” 

When the worry lines don’t leave Howland’s face, Lyanna averts her gaze back to the television. “My secretary is sending my condolences to the royal family. I need an official statement for the press. Emphasize how Queen Rhaella inspired a generation of women in Westeros. As leaders, as mothers. In a world that equates strength with coldness, she showed us the power of warmth and compassion...Say that ‘today, the republic mourns not just its queen and one of its greatest monarchs, but its mother.’” 

“The republic, Lyanna? Or Rhaegar?” Howland asks with a raised brow.

Straightening her back, the Foreign Affairs Minister puts a chill of formality in her voice. “I want a draft on my desk within the hour.” 

He stands and gathers his things. “Anything else, Minister Stark?” 

_Unless you can help me convince my son to attend his grandmother’s funeral without telling him she’s his grandmother._

“That will be all.” 

* * *

“Can I interest you in a mimosa, Auntie? A jay, perhaps?” 

Princess Daenerys turns away from the white clouds rippling beneath the plane wing like a banner in the wind to eye her nephew warily. He’s the last person she wants to be trapped on a plane with right now, but Elia wanted them to return from their respective international trips together. 

From Volantis to Pentos, Daenerys appreciated blessed silence as her traveling staff gave her the space to process her loss privately before having to do so in public. 

Then, after an hour-long wait on a Pentoshi airfield, Aegon arrived.

“We aren’t going to brunch, Eggy; my mother is dead. And you’re not smoking on my plane.” 

“You’re right. Grandmother _did_ love a good vodka tonic.” He retrieves a small plastic baggy full of gummy bears from a vintage leather duffle bag monogrammed with a stately _“A.T. VI”_ before pressing the intercom. “We’d like two vodka tonics, please.” 

Because arguing with him requires more energy than she has, Daenerys fixes her attention on Aegon’s bag. “You carry your drugs in a _monogrammed_ bag?” 

He blinks at her with eyes like Rhaegar’s—deep indigo opposed to the light violet of her own—with none of his seriousness. “What? They’re only illegal in Westeros.” 

Maybe vodka isn’t a bad idea. 

“How old were you when Grandmother let you have your first tonic?” Aegon asks, looking wistfully at the clear liquid in his glass. 

Dany smiles, remembering her mother’s summons in the wee hours after her fifteenth birthday party. It was a bit of a tradition in the family that when she summoned you to the Queen’s personal sitting room for a drink, she thought of you as an adult. 

_“So,”_ her mother said in her gentle voice. _“Tell me what you want to do with your life, my dear.”_

To go to college—away from Westeros. To see the world and learn about life outside of palaces and stuffy old traditions. To contribute more to the world than smiling and hugging children for photo opportunities. 

She’d managed all of the above, with her mother’s ardent support every step of the way. Through six years at Sealord’s College in Braavos where she earned dual undergraduate degrees in international studies and economics, then a postgraduate degree in human rights. Months in Essos and as far east as Asshai where she raised funds to start _The Mhysa Foundation_ , which advocated against labor-related human rights abuses all over the world. Her fervent lobbying against archaic labor laws in Astapor, Yuncai, Meereen, and Volantis that were little more than thinly-veiled slavery. 

And on the rare occasion Daenerys ended up in the tabloids for one silly thing or another (namely her weakness for the private company of tattooed Essosi futbol players), Rhaella never reprimanded her, even when Rhaegar and Elia expressed disapproval.

Gods, she misses her mother so much already. 

“Fifteen,” she finally answered Aegon. “You were a bit older, right?” 

Aegon nodded. “Nineteen. Not everyone was as wise beyond their years as young Daenerys. Though,” he shrugs. “It could have been worse. I don’t think she had a drink with Uncle Viserys until he was twenty-one.”

That was certainly on-brand for her middle brother. “Do you remember what she said to you?” 

Her nephew cleared his throat and did his best impersonation of Rhaella’s prim, melodic voice. “‘You come from the stock of rulers and rogues, on both sides. Gods be good, you’ll be neither.’” Casting a look at the red-haired Royal Guard agent seated with the rest of the detail near the back of the plane, his mouth twists into a wicked grin “She was right. I take after the women in my family.” 

Careful not to stare too hard at the agent—Connington, if she’s not mistaken—Dany rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Eggy. He’s your father’s age.” Or a few years younger now that Dany thinks about it, but still. 

Aegon motions for a refill. “That’s the point. Don’t tell me you’ve never indulged in a little ‘daddy’ play? That enforcer from the Dothraki futbol team looked like the type.” 

Ordinarily, she’d indulge his need to dish; especially since it seems like he wants a distraction from his grief. But she’s in no mood to discuss her exes, least of all the one whose “sun and stars” tattoo she only recently removed from her hip bone. 

“How long has this been going on?” If Connington had touched her nephew while he was underage or coerced him in any way, she’d personally have him gelded. 

“Before you start breathing fire,” Aegon held up his hand. “It’s only been since my twenty-third birthday. And _I_ seduced _him_.” 

So two years, then. She's still curious about how a man in his forties who once idolized her eldest brother found himself "seduced" by his twenty-three-year-old son. “If Rhaegar finds out…” 

For the first time since he boarded the plane, darkness falls over his carefree expression. “His precious heir has just given him adorable twin grandchildren and he has a throne to ascend. Who shares my bed is the least of Father’s concerns.” 

Unfortunately, with Rhaegar and Elia on the throne, Dany has a feeling that the dating lives of all the unmarried Targaryens are about to be at the top of the list of the crown’s concerns. 

“I’m going to try to get some rest. There’s a proper mourning suit for you to change into before we land. A preview from Prada’s spring line.” 

Aegon's eyes light up as he rises from his seat. “Princess Daenerys, Holder of Degrees, Khaleesi of Rugged Essosi Futbolers, Mhysa of the Downtrodden, Procurer of Fine Fabrics for Her Favorite Nephew. Long may you reign.” 

“You're only my favorite until little Baelor is old enough to share a tonic with his great aunt."

Flipping her the bird, he retreats to one of the suites, leaving Dany once more in blessed silence. 


	3. Chapter 3

It’s hard being the big sister. 

Sure. On paper, Obara is the eldest of Oberyn’s daughters, but even before her brains were scrambled in a Qarthene dungeon, she wasn’t exactly a font of wisdom. You run to Obara when someone’s ass needs kicking; yours, to dislodge your head from it, or someone who means to do you harm. When it comes to the general welfare of Oberyn’s older brood, four women from four mothers with distinctly different upbringings and issues to accompany them, Nymeria Sand is the keeper of the keys. It’s her job to notice when Obara goes too many days without showering because occasionally, she has PTSD relapses from being waterboarded by a Qarthene drug lord. To call Tyene and dish about their sexcapades to make sure she’s staying on the healthy side of her sadism fetish instead of taking out her rage and abandonment issues on her poor husband’s ass. To note the dryness in Sarella’s normally flawless brown skin and the lines around her eyes as signs that she’s heartbroken and holding herself together with red wine, coffee, and 90 hour work weeks. 

And if you think a former super-assassin and an extreme Type A Domme are a lot to handle, try telling a know-it-all workaholic with a 154 IQ that she either needs to talk through her feelings or get a facial, get fucked into a coma, and get over it.

She finds her little sister in the office at midnight on a Friday, bent over her desk frowning at an open folder and scattered papers. Slacks that were pressed this morning show wrinkles around the hips from hours of sitting and the fine curls at Sarella’s temples have started to rebel against the sleek ponytail she wore at the beginning of the day. 

She almost looks like her twelve-year-old self. Locked away in Oberyn’s library, ebony corkscrews falling into her eyes as she devoured whichever tome fascinated her that day. 

“Go home, Sarella Xanai,” Nymeria says, leaning in the doorframe. “If you insist on working all night at least do it in your living room."

Sarella’s eyes don’t leave her desk. “What are you doing here? I thought you turned into a pumpkin if you’re not in lingerie on an island by 9:00 PM Friday night.” 

_Not wrong_ , Nym thinks. She only stopped in the office to pick up a pair of Guiseppes that her date _needs_ to see her in tonight. The shoes and nothing else if he’s a good boy. 

“Needed some key accessories before my next stop,” she holds up the strappy black and gold metal stilettos. “Seriously, go home. You’ve been working too much, you look like shit, and nothing in that folder you’re obsessing over is going to fix you.” 

“We’re gearing up for our first national election. Naturally, I’m working more. Who says I need to be fixed?” 

Nym starts counting on her fingers. “Those tired eyes and dead skin you think you’re hiding under foundation that I’m not entirely sure is your color. You can barely look at Jon without seething and I’m _thinking_ it has something to do with Joffrey Baratheon’s mysterious murder that _looks_ like the killer was a professional or—I don’t know— _coached_ by one. Your on-and-off paramour—who you were absolutely back _on_ with when you snuck off for a quick fuck at the Republic’s Gala—returning to the _off_ column after we fixed his sister’s divorce. Feel free to stop me when I’m getting warm.” 

_That_ gets her attention. 

Her little sister likes to think that having a robust social life makes Nymeria oblivious—it doesn’t. She’s as in love with that Stark boy as a woman who lives 90% of her life in her head can be. 

“Let’s assume all that is true,” Sarella says, folding her arms. “What makes you think being alone in my apartment where I can still smell that man on my couch cushions and hear his voice in my bed is better than being alone in this office?” 

_Oh, dear._

This is worse than Nymeria thought. 

“Pack your things. Let’s go.” 

“Nymeria, did you hear what I just sai—” 

Nymeria, already furiously typing on her phone, nods. “A car is waiting outside to take us to the Hightower. I’m meeting my date; you’re checking into an executive suite for the weekend.” 

“Nym—”

“I’m scheduling your apartment for a deep-cleaning tomorrow—upholstery included. A masseuse and esthetician will come to your suite at 11 AM sharp to give you a deep-tissue massage and a hydrating facial. If you want to work the rest of the weekend, be my guest. But you _will_ eat three solid meals a day and take a break on the booze. Your skin needs it.” If she could get away with it, she’d schedule some...company for her sister as well, but Nym has a feeling there’s only one person Sarella will have in Robb’s absence. 

She’s not touching _that_ particular bag of snakes.

“This isn’t necess—”

“Pack it up, Princess. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.” 

* * *

_"And we end the night in King’s Landing where the republic got its first look at its new monarch as King Rhaegar greeted a crowd of mourners gathered at the Red Keep Historical Park and Museum for a candlelight vigil honoring the late Queen Rhaella. Joined by his wife, Queen Elia, the King gave no formal remarks but made his way down a line of hundreds of mourners; graciously accepting hugs, shaking hands, and offering words of comfort even as he grieves the loss of his mother._

_“It is a strikingly new tone for the Royal Family. Even as she sought to foster a warmer image through charitable initiatives for Westeros’s underserved communities, Queen Rhaella herself remained rather distant from the people. This could be a sign that King Rhaegar, once hailed as ‘the People’s Prince,’ intends to be a more hands-on monarch._

_“The rest of the Royal Family is expected to join the King and Queen in King’s Landing later this week for Queen Rhaella’s funeral._

_“That’s going to do it for us at WKLN. This has been Desmond Redwyne with your late-night news update. Stay tuned for your regularly scheduled programming.”_

Sarella should have known that any suite Nymeria arranged for her would be the height of luxury. The spacious room is one of three on its floor with floor-to-ceiling views of the Oldtown skyline throughout; a sight Sarella takes in from a vintage clawfoot tub as she sips sparkling water and tries to relax. 

This silence. 

This is what she’s been avoiding. 

Work helped. Beating District Counsel Arys Oakhart’s case against her client, Chataya Zo, had been particularly rewarding. Now the former brothel-owner would retire to the Summer Isles, get to know her grandchildren, and leave the business to her daughter Aliyaya who was already transitioning the operation into an exclusive escort network better-suited for modern Westeros. 

Next, she’d put together an image rehabilitation plan for former _The Bachelor: Westeros_ star Harold Hardyng after his made-for-TV “engagement” fell apart. He thought he needed a new high-profile girlfriend (and had his eye on recently-divorced Sansa Stark). Sarella advised him to dive into philanthropic work and avoid being photographed with a woman for at least a year. 

But no matter how much time she logged at the office, eventually, she had to go home. Three times in the last few weeks, she’d let Daemon talk her through some sleep-inducing orgasms. The other nights, when she stubbornly refused to use him as a crutch and was left alone with her thoughts, they drifted to Robb. 

Robb in the Winterfell library. Robb outside the Wintertown Pub in the North, with snowflakes in his thick, auburn hair. Robb against the door in her living room. Robb in her bed. 

Robb fastening the anklet made of Valyrian steel from the Stark ancestral sword around her ankle. 

Those were the thoughts she chased away with half a bottle of red wine before passing out at 2:00 AM only to wake at 6:00 and dash out of her apartment on double shots of espresso because the walls, the air...all felt full of _him._

Then Joffrey Baratheon turned up mysteriously strangled in a King’s Landing alley. _Mysteriously_ strangled. No prints. No murder weapon. No trace of another party. Though the kill didn’t look like an assassin’s work. 

It looked like someone familiar with crime scenes cleaned it up. 

Like an ex-cop.

An ex-cop whose _mother_ is a potential Prime Minister candidate. 

And finally, there was what troubled Sarella when Nymeria found her frowning over desk after midnight on a Friday. 

Foreign Affairs Minister Lyanna Stark and her seemingly flawless file full of flattering magazine interviews, photos with royalty and dignitaries from around the world, and a slew of awards from various professional women’s organizations and international relations institutes.

An excellent academic record at Riverlands Women’s College. A year as an aide under Hoster Tully at the Foreign Affairs Ministry until she qualified for a highly competitive fellowship at the World Council in Braavos. From there, her career took off and she scored positions in Westerosi embassies all over western Essos–Braavos, Lorath, Norvos, and Tyrosh–while being heavily courted by the Baratheon administration to serve as his Foreign Affairs Minister. She wouldn’t take the position until Baratheon’s removal from office. 

Even her dating history is rather tame for a woman who never married. A few long-ish term monogamous relationships with Essosi diplomats, government officials, and published academics, showing a clear preference for slightly older, brainy types. The one “blip” on her record, if one could call it that, was getting pregnant with Jon in her first year at the World Council’s international relations program, which she reportedly chalks up to a “whirlwind romance” with a Braavosi naval officer who died on assignment in the Shivering Sea before Jon was born. 

But she made it work for her by embracing the “working mother” archetype. That photo of baby Jon straddled to Lyanna's chest at a World Council meeting made her the image of the modern working mother in Westeros. 

Except. 

“I’m not complaining,” Daemon Sand says when he answers her call. “But you’re keeping some rather scandalous hours lately. 3:00 AM?” 

This is their routine. She calls. He notes the time while sounding wide awake no matter the hour. She has bigger priorities tonight. “Jaqiros Brenys,” she says, recalling the photo in Lyanna’s file of a young soldier with blonde hair and deep, midnight blue eyes. “Why aren’t there any files on his family?” 

“Why does it sound like you’re in a bathroom?” 

“Because I’m in the tub. Jaqiros Brenys?” 

If it’s possible to hear a smirk through a phone, she swears she can hear his. “Jon’s father? He showed up on the doorstep at the Temple of the Lord of Light as a newborn. Raised by Red Priestesses. Joined the Navy at 16. Met Lyanna Stark at a dive bar in Ragman’s Harbor two weeks before shipping out for his second tour of duty. Died at sea when his ship was attacked by Ibbenese pirates.” 

“And the photo in the file is the only one you had for him?” 

“What are you thinking?” 

_That a brief affair with an orphaned officer who dies at sea before learning he’s about to be a father sounds like Lyanna Stark is hiding something._

"I need more. Birth records at Braavosi hospitals, transcripts from his elementary school, bank records, his shipmates…Anything that paints a clearer picture of who this man was.” 

“On it,” Daemon says. “As much as I enjoy these late-night chats, your lack of sleep lately concerns me.” 

She’s had enough of this from Nymeria tonight, she doesn’t need it from him. “You need to decide what you want more Daemon: to fuck me or to be my father. You can’t do both.” 

“If this is your way of saying you want to call me ‘daddy,’ you should know I prefer ‘ser.’” 

“When can I get my intel?” she asks with a sigh. 

“Your father will be in King’s Landing for the funeral,” he replies, a hint of amusement still in his voice. “Your aunt wants you all to attend. You’ll have it then.” 

With everything on her plate, Sarella forgot that her aunt is the new Queen of Westeros. She could bat away a request from Oberyn. An invitation from _Queen_ Elia Martell Targaryen is another matter. 

Agreeing to see him then, Sarella ends the call but not before Daemon teases her with “permission” to think of him as she finishes her bath. 

The man is incorrigible. It doesn’t bother her nearly as much as it used to. 

Oldtown, its lights glimmering in the wee hours between night and dawn, stretches out before Sarella as she adds more steaming hot water to the tub. She’s nearly a prune, but that’s okay. With this view, the tub almost feels like a throne, and having the city laid out beneath her helps her think, much like sitting at the foot of the sphinx statue at the Citadel used to. 

She has to prepare for the possibility that Lyanna isn’t a viable candidate. Which means Wyman will push Robb in her place, whether he’s ready or not. 

But could she work on that campaign? 

_You’re going to turn down the chance to seat a Prime Minister because your feelings are hurt?_

No. That’s unacceptable. 

She will do what she can to make Lyanna the best choice and if that’s not possible… 

_“You are the sun in the goddamned sky,”_ her father insisted that day on the tarmac in the North. Three years ago when he’d swooped into Westeros to remind her that she was more than some politician’s wife. When he’d predicted exactly how Robb would grow to resent how comfortably she wielded power. 

_“...And you do not bow, or bend, or break. For anyone.”_

No matter what happens, she will seat the next Prime Minister of Westeros. 

And she thinks she’ll rent this suite for the next couple of weeks. She could use a change of scenery. And if she’s going to be an insomniac for the foreseeable future, at least she’ll have a room with a view. 

* * *

For the life of her, she cannot understand how Rhaegar and Elia’s marriage works. 

Daenerys is the first to arrive at the Targaryen’s Crownlands residence ahead of her mother’s funeral, giving her the chance to watch the duo in action. Even in their mid-50s, they are still a picture-perfect royal couple. Rhaegar, tall, and handsome in a stately, older professor way. Elia, with a slender build made lusher by motherhood and time, the dark features of her Rhoynish heritage an excellent complement to Rhaegar’s porcelain skin and platinum hair. Everyone in Dragonstone knows that they breakfast together religiously and even with a full staff, Elia goes out of her way to refill his coffee (Bravossi Dark Roast black, with two sugars) if they linger for conversation after eating. When they leave a room together, her brother always lets Elia walk out first and leads her through the door with a hand on the small of her back. 

But she’s never felt any heat between them. Never a gaze from across the room that says “Wait until I get you in my quarters tonight.” No urgency in the polite kisses they exchange for photos. Elia having a long-term lover is the worst kept secret at Dragonstone yet her brother and good-sister have what appears to be an affectionate, well-functioning marriage. 

It boggles the mind. 

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Elia asks after Rhaegar excuses himself from the breakfast table. 

“Walking the Sept of Baelor with the High Septon today.” 

Any other Crown Prince would have his secretary handle the walk-through before a royal funeral. Only Rhaegar would make a point of doing it himself.

_King, Dany. Your mother is dead and your brother is the King._

“Should I have lunch prepared for you?” 

Rhaegar leans down to kiss Elia’s forehead. “No. Join me for dinner?” 

“Of course, my love. I’ll see you then.” Elia’s gaze follows Rhaegar out of the dining room before she zeroes in on Dany. “We haven’t spoken much since you’ve been home. How are you, Daenerys?” 

Remembering Elia lost her mother right before her engagement to Rhaegar, Dany decides against the neat, rehearsed answer she’s given since landing on this side of the Narrow Sea. “You never get over it, do you?” 

Elia’s obsidian eyes soften. “No, I’m afraid. You’ll get married and have children, grandchildren…” She pauses and Dany knows “be crowned Queen” is on the tip of her tongue. “You’ll live all of your important moments knowing there’s an empty chair where your mother should be.” 

_Marriage. Children._ All her life she’s been accused of being consumed by her vision for tomorrow; lately, she can’t think beyond burying her mother. _Would_ she marry? Have children? 

_If you do, they’ll never meet their grandparents._

The tears well up before she can stop them. 

“But between you and me,” Elia reaches for Dany’s hand. “It’s better to hold that space, no matter how painful it is, than to forget it.” 

Dany dabs at the corner of her eyes. “I’m sure you didn’t ask me to breakfast to watch me blubber about. You needed to speak with me?” 

“Yes,” Elia says, lifting and dropping her shoulders to shift the conversation. “What do you think about taking up permanent residence at Summerhall?” 

Dany blinks. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Obviously, there are going to be some changes. We initially thought Rhaenys and Terrance would want their own household, but they prefer to have the twins grow up at Dragonstone. Gods only know what Viserys would get up to unsupervised, and Eggy...well, he’s not ready for that much responsibility.”

She’s not wrong. About any of it. But Dany still feels there's something she's not saying. “So you want to give me my own household?” 

“You’re a modern royal, establishing yourself on the world stage as a humanitarian—separating yourself from the stuffy formality of Dragonstone is a good move for you. And an excellent fit for your personal life.” 

_So that’s what this is about._ “My...personal life?” 

Ever the lady, Elia presses her napkin in her lap before folding her hands on the table. “You’re reticent on marriage—I don’t blame you. You’re last in the line of succession and a lively, passionate young woman with a full life. _However_ …”

Dany raises a brow. 

“I don’t think you’ve been mindful about the reputations of the men you tie to this family. I’ll never fault a woman for taking pleasure in a strapping, tattooed rogue; but publicly gallivanting with them...I know you think yourself more trailblazer than princess, Daenerys, but you _are_ still a Targaryen.” 

_This is rich_. Elia’s own brother was a ‘strapping, tattooed rogue’ with eight daughters by five women, none of whom he bothered to marry. 

Perhaps that’s the problem. With Rhaella gone and Elia as Queen, the public might accuse the royal family of behaving ‘too Dornish.' _She doesn’t want people tying my behavior to her influence._

Still. Her mother’s body isn’t cold and Elia’s already assuming the role of matriarch. 

“So that I’m clear: you’re asking me to leave my ancestral home because you don’t like who I date?” 

“ _We_ are offering you the space to conduct your private affairs _privately_. Last I checked, Summerhall is as much your ancestral home as Dragonstone.” 

_We?_ “Rhaegar wouldn’t—”

“If I left it to Rhaegar,” Elia says pointedly, “he’d see you married within the year. Progressive as he may be, you’re more daughter than sister to him. If you think he _championed_ your dalliance with Drogo Whatshisface, you are sadly mistaken. He nearly ground his teeth to dust over it.” 

Of _all_ the things for Rhaegar to worry about—hell, his own _son_ is fucking one of his old mates—who _Daenerys_ sleeps with is a problem? Dany swallows her tongue, refusing to rat out Eggy to deflect attention from her.

But there is _one_ card she can pull. 

“If only my brother was as concerned with who warms his wife’s bed as he seems to be with mine. That’s what you’re really afraid of, isn’t it? That my affairs might bring extra attention to the _other_ women in this family?” 

Elia’s face goes as still as a delicately-carved marble statue. “Don’t forget, Daenerys, that 'other' women in this family include your own mother—” 

Dany’s ready to shoot out of her chair, but Elia continues “—who died happily in the arms of the love of her life without sacrificing the Crown’s reputation to do so.” 

That sends her right back into her chair. Remembering Eggy’s comment about “taking after the women in the family,” she assumed he meant _his_ mother. 

But Mother and General Selmy? She knew they were friends from his days as a guard at Dragonstone and suspected some mild flirtation, but…

_He was with her when she died._

Bloody hell. 

How long had they…? Certainly not before Father’s death. That would mean…

No. Her mother was a wise woman. She wouldn’t have risked any of her children's paternity to satiate her own desires. 

“Whether you live at Dragonstone or Summerhall, your days of running around with brutish ne’er-do-wells are over. You need a stiff cock? Find one who is quiet, undyingly loyal, and _out_ of the public eye. You want more? We’ll give you an appropriate, Crown-vetted list to choose from.” 

_An appropriate, Crown-vetted list_. So she could be stuck playing a doting partner to a glorified roommate like Rhaegar and Elia. Ill-advised as her relationships Khal Drogo and her recent ex, Daario, had been, they were real. With passion and desire. They’d made her feel wanted the way a man wants a woman; not the way men of means seeking social capital want a ‘princess’ on their arms. 

_You’re the Blood of the Dragon, Daenerys. This woman only married in_. _Do not cower before her._ “And if I don’t?” Dany retorts icily. 

“If you don’t…” Eila murmurs, almost to herself, then shrugs. “Then I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, dear sister.”

* * *

Attorney General and Justice Minister Stannis Baratheon has one vice: cigars. 

Like most of the thorns in his side, the filthy habit is linked to his oaf of an older brother. Taking too many backroom and golf course “meetings,” he started smoking them and later learned that no one trusted a man who claimed to have _no_ vices. Robert had too many; Renly has but one, but that one could blow up the artfully-designed facade of a life he lives. 

Stannis has cigars. 

Sitting in his office at the Justice Ministry in the late hours of the night, the sweet smell of hand-rolled Walano tobacco filling the room, he reviews his deputy’s latest status report. _The District of Oldtown vs. Chataya Zo_ \- thrown out. No surprise there. That Oldtown District Attorney, Arys Oakhart, is as clumsy as a green boy in a brothel. 

A preliminary inquiry to the Financial Crimes unit to open an investigation into Petyr Baelish's purchase of the TV network WKLN. Overdue. Something's off about Baelish's access to income and it can't be an accident that the club where Cersei's bastard had his drugs shipped for his final soiree was a Mockingbird Enterprises property. Going after the drugs instead of Joffrey’s murder pissed Robert right off—to the point his big brother had to acknowledge his ‘traitorous’ brother’s existence long enough to call and berate him about it. 

Stannis told him Joffrey was a lackwit junkie manchild who wouldn’t have ended up face-down in an alley with better decision-making and better parents. 

It could have been worse. He could have told him the bastard wasn’t even his son. 

“Minister Baratheon?” a raspy voice calls from the door to his office. “A moment?” 

Stannis doesn’t look up from his paperwork. “Did you do as I asked, Davos? 

“I’ve contacted my sources at _The Beacon_ , _The Daily Raven_ , _The Stormlands Journal_ , and _The Harrenhal Post_ with off-the-record quotes that you’re considering running for Prime Minister, citing your concern about the current field's 'ties to corporate interests.'” 

Putting out his cigar, he motions for his deputy to come in. 

“I have a list of consulting firms we should look at to kick off your campaign—”

“My what?” 

“You’re running for Prime Minister. We need—”

Davos. Steadfast and rational, he’d taken Stannis’s request to the next logical conclusion. But he has no intention to enter the Prime Minister’s race. That was something he wanted years ago before he knew better. When he left a prolific career as a prosecutor in the Stormlands’ Regional Counsel’s office to join Robert’s campaign for Prime Minister, only to watch his brother squander his political capital on whoring and spreading his seed at a rate that was shocking for how much he drank. 

Before he learned how much power a Minister of Justice could wield. How much corruption he could root out. Destroying Robert’s career, in the end, was a happy accident. It wasn’t _his_ fault the senior Baratheon couldn’t keep his cock in his pants or his fingers out of government funds. 

“I’m not running for Prime Minister, Davos.” 

“Then why did I just tell every major newspaper in the republic that you're considering it?” 

“Because the candidates who think I’m a threat will have a vested interest in keeping me out of the race. I only wish to continue my mission of keeping Westeros’s common folk safe from the greedy excess of its elite class, Davos.” 

“Aye,” his long-time deputy says, eying him warily. “Of course, you do.” 

And if his little brother, the Lannisters, or whomever the North-Riverlands-Vale alliance puts forth are unwilling to deal...he’ll destroy them. 

He’s already taken down one Prime Minister. Taking down a mere candidate will be a piece of cake.


End file.
